


France métropolitaine

by Peoplesing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Drunkenness, M/M, Romance, Subways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesing/pseuds/Peoplesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras certainly wasn't in the mood to be serenated in the subway by a random drunk. Or was he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	France métropolitaine

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not have happened to me (God I hate the subway).
> 
> Please do forgive me for the terrible, terrible poetry. Then again, he's drunk so it fits.

It was Wednesday night and a quarter past midnight. Enjolras let out a relived sigh as he saw that he hadn't missed tonight's last subway. He certainly didn't want to pay for an overprices cab, or stay overnight at the office, although the latter one had already happened on specials occasions. But Eponine, his faithful secretary, hated it and would pest at him when he did so. 

He sat down on one of the cheap plastic seats, the next train and last train coming up in 2 minutes according to the electronic panel. He kept fiddling with the handle of his leather black briefcase, preoccupied and tired and only mildly eager to get home (home to what?).

He untugged his red tie, feeling way too tight around his throat, and ended up letting it completely loose. The whole suit felt uncomfortable. He decided so to shrug off his jacket, the bloody thing way too heavy and hot in the stale air, before he folded it messily on his lap.

He couldn't wait to change in a loose pair of sweatpants and a shirt that wouldn't make him feel like a stuck up prick.

Most people were returning back to their loved ones, a family or a partner. The only thing he came back to was his half empty bottle of brandy that would warm up his lonely heart.

They were days he really had the feeling that his whole life revolved around his work. Even Combeferre, his “partner in crime”, had Courfeyrac to go to at night. 

The train finally came in, not too crowded at that time of the night, it's brakes hissing at an hear-piercing pitch to finally come to a stop.

The blond got into the one at the rear, easily finding a seat that wasn't too dirty. He sat down on it, his legs feeling way too strained to stay up like some would. They weren't many people in that wagon anyways: a couple snogging throughly, an old man reading the papers, a couple of teens hypnotized by their cellphones and a few others, probably going home after a party or a hard day of work. Everyone looked tired.

There was a man, probably no older than he was, sitting on of the jump seat, even though they were still regular seats free. He was laying languorously on it, wearing an ironic shirt ( “God is busy. Can I help you? With a devil face printed bellow it ) and a pair of faded jeans that was too loose be actually his. He completed the ensemble with a pair of old sneakers and a green military jacket that all those hipsters wore. Strangely, it didn't looked like it on him. He didn't acknowledge his arrival in the wagon, then again, why should he? He threw his head up, hitting lightly the plastic wall behind him.

Clearly he was wasted. There was something specific about the way drunks were. You could decipher it in the way they moved and maintained themselves. There was something that you could see in the white of their eyes, red and unfocused. They were also the more obvious signs, like the smell lingering into the air or the slurs in their words, but Enjolras wasn't close enough to spot them. And he couldn't care less either.

Enjolras checked his phone. It was 20 past midnight and he had no new messages to check. It looked like it was going to be a long ride.

He mentally tried to concentrate on his work, this or that pointless case that he had to finish before the week end, but there something was bothering him, a constant sound that wasn't there in his usual ride. 

He looked up again at the drunkard.

He was humming an unfamiliar song, mostly muted by the thrumming of the subway, his foot tapping against the floor, not paying attention to anything out of his bubble. 

And it annoyed the blond. A lot.

He fake coughed, loudly, like most people in those kind of circumstances. But it wasn't working. The man wasn't paying attention, or maybe purposely ignoring him, he honestly couldn't say. But candid innocence or not, it would be infinity welcomed that he'd stop. 

Enjolras hated the subway. At that time of the night, there was always a deranged person or a drunkard to disturb the general peace. It was Wednesday, who gets wasted on a Wednesday? Certainly not respectable people. He coughed again, loudly. But still nothing.

At some point he completely forgot about his phone and focused on watching the man, downwards glaring at him. The brown haired man eventually interrupted himself, his eyebrows shooting comically under his messy black bangs.

And then, he smiled. A wide grin uncovered his white teeth, an mute chuckle on his rosy lips.

Enjolras ducked his head down, his attention suddenly back to his phone that he gripped forcefully. That guy was obviously messing with me. Or maybe he was deranged. The both would fit. He waited patiently for 2 stops to happen, not exactly concentrate on his wife, before he looked up again, to check the brown-haired man.

The drunk was staring once more, directly at him. He didn't know what that was about, but he certainly didn't like to be eyed by a drunk freak when all he longed for was the comfort of his bed. Even if he was an attractive one, the scruffy sexy type. That didn't excuse anything. 

He seriously needed to get laid if he thought of having sex with a random guy in a subway.

The said man suddenly stood up, walking weirdly straight through the swaying of the train and he posted himself in front of him.  
And then, he started singing. His voice was hoarse and strong, higher than the underground train, higher than the beeping of cellphones, clear and loud.

“There was a man riding up the subway  
That didn't know exactly how to find his way  
But fear not for he was so handsome  
The most handsome of them all!”

Enjolras twitched, frustration building up the way a volcano would, about to burst. And oh God that was embarrassing. Screw the subway, he'll take off and walk the rest of the way to his apartment. Anything would be better than staying here. Right?

He seemed to relish on his discomfort, trying to keep himself from laughing out loud as he continued his song, not caring that the subway stopped and another couple got into the wagon.

“The golden Apollo was going home  
In the subway number 13  
And for all the people, he could be seen  
For he was the most handsome of them all”

The man, suddenly dangerously close (he could feel his alcoholic's breath on his face), got a hold of his tie and pushed him up. Still clenching at it, he gripped his waist and started waltzing awkwardly through the train with a more than reluctant partner.

He did tried to stop him, protesting loudly and trying to push him away. But he didn't ant to hurt either of them by falling or hitting one of the metal bars.

Also, as surprising as it sounded, the drunk, wasted out of his mind, was sure-footed through the moving train, pulling the blond along.

“He wears a mane made of pure gold  
And there's a blazing fire within his eyes  
His face is truly something to behold  
For he is the most handsome of them all”

He lowered his lashes, hesitating between kicking his shin and just let the both of them be, led into the wicked dance. He felt deeply annoyed, wanting desperately for this to end. The dark-haired man smelt like gin and sweat which reminded him of the wild and ruthlessness.

“Savage Antious was glaring at us  
And me, the drunk, can see what was the fuss  
About the Greek worshiping Apollo  
The most handsome of them all”

…

Was that someone filming them with their crappy phone? Seriously? He could definitely hear people making “ohs” and “ahs”, laughing their asses off at the ridiculous scene. He would probably have done the same at their places. But he wasn't. 

One of his perfect tailored shoes slipped slightly against a dark basket, but the stranger paid no mind to it, steadying the blond. He moved so easily on the plastic floor, like a sailor on swaying deck?

“I may be drunk, but I am not blind  
I can see through the scowl, I can see behind  
He is so pretty, he is so divine  
The most handsome of them all”

He kept making him spin and spin, his head going astray. His arms were warm against his body, the unwanted touch surprisingly welcomed. 

And if his legs, tired and uncoordinated, tripped or hit on the one of his partner, he would just hold him up, keeping him from making a fool out of himself. 

“And I, poor Grantaire, is utterly lost  
But I'll get his number, no matter the cost  
If only my muse would let me, dear Apollo  
The most handsome of them all.”

Apparently that was the end of his song, unless he just ran out of imagination. They gradually stopped spinning, under the applause of the few witnesses. And God this should feel embarrassing. Except he didn't care. The man, who's name was still unknown, was the only he could see, the heat of his body radiating against him and the smell of gin becoming intoxicating for his own senses.

His cheeks felt hot, his breath was ragged and panted, yet his heart was lighter. It hadn't felt like that for a long time. He wanted to laugh, to yell, to kiss the stranger right in front of him with his wild hair and redden lips that begged to be kissed. Why didn't he just follow his impulse? He was still searching for the answer himself. 

And the drunk was smiling at him, smug or genuinely happy, he couldn't tell. He was unbelievable, to the limit of annoying and rude, and yet his heart skipped a beat at the open and happy face, so different from the people he was used to socialize with. 

His hands were still on the broad shoulders, digging slightly into the shirt and the firm muscles as his partner was still holding him tightly, his hands splayed on the small of his back, apparently set on not letting him go. And Enjolras didn't want it too. The thumbs were tracing idle patterns on his covered skin, sending shivers up his spine. He felt good. Perfect. 

Unfortunately, the man didn't seem able to read his mind, or maybe he was aware that all good things had to come to an end. Before the blond was even aware of it, he was being moved back by the stranger, that gently unhooked the fingers on his shoulders (Enjolras would have like to protest, but his mouth was so dry and his mind so helpless) before he settled him down gently at his seat, where his briefcase and jacket were still lying.

And he was just standing there in front of the blond, his cheeks redden by the effort and the alcohol in his veins. He looked so handsome like that, like he was... Expecting something. 

His stare was peculiarly worrying, so deep and intense that Enjolras had to blush under it. 

God. He had to get out of here.

The train stopped and he jumped out of it, his stuffs in his hands and not caring where he was, leaving the man that didn't do anything to stop him anyways. He would walk, he thought, the pounding of his heart being the only thing setting him in motion. He half ran up the stairs, taking the steps two by two, confused by the lack of air and by the blinding artificial lights.

He can't even bother to imagine the state he was in, with his flushed face and his hair in disarray, his chest heaving as if he had ran a marathon.

Outside it was raining and windy but screw it. Truth be told the water cooled him down, and he slowly came back to his old self, feeling drenched, cold and lonely. He was still walking, putting on his crumpled jacket almost automatically, as he struggled to recognize a familiar building in the neighborhood to orient himself. The streets were empty and barely lit, making his search even more difficult. Where the hell was he?

He mindlessly putted his hands in his jacket's pocket and felt something odd. A piece of paper... It was a Starbuck's receipt. He frowned confusedly at that. He never went to Starbucks, never had time to do so. He turned it and on the back, there was a number, signed R.

Grantaire.

…

When the hell did slide that in here?


End file.
